


All is Bright

by Rev (Ballyhoo)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Baccano! Secret Santa 2016, Christmas, Family, Gen, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, no light novel spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 17:19:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9247691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballyhoo/pseuds/Rev
Summary: December 1932. It is Firo and Ennis' first Christmas with Czes, and Ennis would like it very much if they made an effort for the holidays. Firo does his best to oblige._______________________A belated Secret Santa gift for Houjicha, who'd requested something family-themed and Christmassy starring Firo/Ennis/Czes and the Martillos, and/or the Gandors+Claire. I can only hope that something, somewhere in the fic makes up for my lateness, and I apologize for any rampant mischaracterization that may have accidentally occurred.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Houjicha](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Houjicha).



**December 1932**  

“Firo, may I talk to you in private? I…”

The rest of Ennis’ sentence was lost on Firo, whose face had heated at the words ‘talk to you in private’ and would remain resolutely pink for the rest of the evening. It was only when Randy and Pezzo started whistling at Fro from their bar stool perches did Firo regain some semblance of concentration, and he managed a _yeah, sure, no problem_ just a beat too late. Ennis offered him a small smile before moving away from the bar and toward the storage room in the back of the Alveare.

Firo stumbled after her, telling himself that this was _Ennis_ and that there was no way in hell that her intentions were anything resembling romantic intimacy. So when she stopped in the storage room and looked at him with those soft, honest eyes of hers – just a foot away from him – he swallowed hard and flexed his fingers in an attempt to get a hold of himself. 

“So, what’s the what?”

“Christmas is this month,” Ennis began, “and it’ll be Czes’ first Christmas with us. I’d like us to celebrate it with him and – and make it something to remember. Does that sound all right?”

Firo’s heart skipped a beat. “Celebrate Christmas? You mean, just the three of us? Together at home? Alone?”

Ennis nodded. “Just the three of us. At home, together. Of course we’ll celebrate with the others at the Alveare, but I thought at least for Christmas Eve and Christmas…”

_Just the three of us, huh…_

He found himself nodding back, and was only a little bit surprised with himself.

“Yeah. Okay, sure thing. Sounds nice.”

Ennis’ eyes widened, and her _thank you_ was so heartfelt in its delivery that Firo decided he was very glad to have agreed. Straightening her blazer, she looked up at him placidly and followed with, “We should rejoin the others before Lia comes looking for us.”

“R-right.”

She moved for the door, and Firo reached out and caught her wrist just as she was turning the doorknob. Ennis stopped and waited expectantly; it was too late to take back the gesture now, and with his face once again heating up Firo asked:

“We don’t…uh, have to go to church, do we?”

Ennis blinked. “If Czes wants. I’m a little curious, but we don’t have to.”

Firo let go, and she smiled at him again before opening the doorknob. “Thank you again, Firo. I’m sure it will all turn out wonderfully.”

 _Optimistic, ain’t she?_

 

 

**Wednesday**

Firo slunk back to the Alveare the next day and avoided the holiday crowd by avoiding the front entrance entirely, descending into its basement via the back alley stairs. There, he greeted two Martillo capos taking refuge from the upstairs chaos _g’morning how ya doing any news uh-huh all right I’m headin’ up_ and went for the stairs by the wall, stopping on the fifth step to briefly speak with Yaguruma _you just get in me too what about this weather huh any word about Capone? I’m gonna go upstairs._

Once on the ground floor, Firo dawdled by the barrels stacked up in the back room to listen to the chatter of the customers beyond. Despite the early hour, the Alveare was already playing host to a sizable number of customers — the same holiday crowd that always mobbed the speakeasies every year once December rolled around.

The Alveare always did good business during the holidays, its honey-based selection giving it a festal leg-up amongst its competitors. Alongside its famous honey wine, the Alveare boasted a fine selection of honey ales, honey bourbon and honey liquor, and for the holidays Seina had perfected a heady mead that the Martillos'  _chiamatore_ Ronny Schiatto was particularly fond of.

 _Still_ , Firo thought, sticking close to the walls as he made his way to the bar, _something’s different this time ‘round._ Something about the general mood that he couldn’t quite place, something – something – 

 _The morning crowd’s bigger_ _than normal_ , he realized. _Even for the holidays._ A majority of the tables were filled, and a few groups of twos and threes stood around the room with champagne flutes in hand. But that wasn’t what had caught his attention, was it? No – no, he was a casino manager, and if there was one thing he knew it was how to read people. Figure out where people’s attention is, able to read their slightest physical movements and changes in expression. So, Firo stopped and _looked_.

Several of the customers near him had their attention on the band playing on the stage, tapping their oxfords and heels along to the jazz. The table nearest to him was full, and its women flashed coquettish smiles at the men sitting beside them, clinking their glasses together to watch their honeyed wine fizz in their glasses.  So they were enjoying themselves – that was nothing new, that was what people were _supposed_ to do when they went out to speakeasies. And yet – yet – why did the mood feel different? Why couldn’t he put his finger on it?

As the song came to a close, one of the men standing near the stage with his arm wrapped around his girl called out, “Play us some [_Happy Days_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqsT4xnKZPg), boys!”

 _Oh_.

Firo folded his arms and leant against the wall as an odd sense of deflation came over him. Now, he understood. Why there were more customers than usual, why something about their enjoyment seemed peculiar – it was an enjoyment borne out of _determination_. Of finality. Roosevelt’s election last month had partially been carried on the promise that he’d repeal the prohibition laws, and it seemed awfully likely now that he intended to keep his promise, even if the latest proposed repeal of the eighteenth amendment _had_ failed only a couple days ago. (It had only failed by six votes, after all).

This would very likely be the last holiday season the Alveare speakeasy saw.

“Firo, over here!”

Firo looked up at his name, and saw Maiza waving at him from where he was stationed on one of the barstools. Ronny sat on his left side, and he too was looking over in Firo’s direction. He immediately straightened and hurried over to greet his seniors, carefully slipping past patrons with muttered apologies.

Maiza patted the stool to his right, and Firo took it gratefully.

“Good morning, Firo! How are the renovations going?”

He was, of course, talking about the Martillo casino that Firo managed. Firo had submitted a request to Don Molsa the previous month asking for funds to reinforce the exchange counters, replace the chandeliers, and to refurbish the washrooms, all of which Molsa had agreed to without complaint. The renovations had begun a few days ago, and although the business had been put on hold, he was making the effort to drop in often to check on the work.

“We’re making nice progress so far…I’d say we’ll definitely be up and running up again before Christmas. I’ll be stopping by to see how things are going later today.”

“Good!” Maiza smiled, and took a sip of – was that _beer?_ “I’m afraid the casino’s closure has put a bit of a dent in our weekly profits, so the sooner it reopens, the better.”

Firo winced with guilt, and Maiza offered a conciliatory pat on his back. “Chin up – I didn’t mean it like that. Any business is bound to close sometimes for necessary renovations, and besides – the casino isn’t as popular during the holidays as our speakeasy.” 

That much was true, and Firo nodded in relief. After a lengthy pause, he mustered up the courage to ask, “Uh, Maiza? I sort of – your glass, I noticed – isthat _beer_ you’redr—”

“Honey ale, yes,” Maiza said, with a small chuckle. “Normally I wouldn’t dream of drinking on the job, but Ronny here talked me into just the one. You see, he made the awfully good point that after some two hundred years of living I’ve grown rather inured to the stuff. I couldn’t come up with a good counterpoint, and so - here we are.” 

Ronny leaned back in his seat, and greeted Firo with what he could only describe as a saucy wink. “It really is like water to him,” he said. “Maiza’s acting far too coy for someone so frightfully old. Well, no matter.”

Firo wondered, briefly, how much Maiza had confessed of his life to Ronny in private. They were friends, he knew, but as to how close they were – he was ignorant. He shook his head; now was not the time for jealousy, and he flagged down Lia as she emerged from the kitchen with a platter of savory scones and another of grilled shrimp in either hand.

“Lia! When you’re free, howzabout a coffee over here?”

“Sure, Firo!” She beamed at him, nudging the door closed with her foot. “Two minutes, okay?”

He turned back to Maiza, already opening his mouth to speak. Someone brushed against his back.

“ _Ahh_ , excuse me, Firo.” 

“Mr. Yagu!”

Yaguruma had switched his black tie out for a festive green one with red and white zigzagging stripes etched horizontally on its fabric. He didn’t _act_ particularly festive, however, and he placed his hands on Ronny and Maiza’s shoulders and leaned in close to speak with them. Maiza withdrew a small notebook and pen from his coat’s inner breast pocket, nodding at whatever Yaguruma was saying.

Firo’s jaw clicked shut, and he looked down at the counter moodily. Even though Maiza and Ronny were already dealing with work matters, he struggled to turn his own thoughts toward the casino (much to his guilt). Instead, he found his mind returning to the conversation he’d had with Ennis just the other day.

_Celebrate Christmas together, huh…_

He and Ennis were coming up on their two year anniversary living together, and they’d spent the last Christmas at Keith and Kate’s house; the year before that, they’d celebrated the holidays together with the Martillos – a month after the incident with Szilard, when it’d finally kicked in for some of the executives that they were _immortal_ and the familial relationship they’d all had with one another took on a whole new meaning.

Before Ennis (what a concept, _before Ennis_ – how strange, how queer!) – the odd year or two Firo had stayed home alone for the holidays, he’d done nothing to celebrate them at home. After all, the Alveare holiday bedecking and cheer was all the festivity he really needed, and the Gandors just about always invited him over every year for a Christmas feast.

That was how it had always been.

 

 

**December 1917**

“I know I’m asking a lot of you,” his mother was saying, soft and weary. Firo couldn’t make out her face from where he, Luck, and Claire were eavesdropping in the closet. “But they’ve asked me to work through tonight and tomorrow and I don’t want to leave him alone. At the very least, not on Christmas Eve. I—I—”

“Of course not,” Luck’s father said, his voice warm with sympathy. “Of course not, please – don’t apologize. We’re very fond of little Firo, and he’s always welcome in this household. Keith and I will make sure the boys leave him a full plate at Christmas dinner, you have my word.”

His mother’s breath hitched. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Gandor, I’m so sorry for putting you through all this trouble. I’ll make it up to you somehow, when my next paycheck comes…”

The sound of rubber squeaked against the wooden floor.

“No need to worry about that. You don’t owe us a thing – believe me, I’d tell you if you did.” He laughed. “Leave Firo to us.”

Rubber against wood. The front door opened, and Firo’s mother and Luck’s father spoke once more with words far too quiet for him to hear. The door closed.

“Firo?” Luck’s father called, and Firo covered his mouth as the creaking wood under the man’s footsteps grew louder with every step. “Where are you? Firo!”

Luck’s father moved past the hallway closet, and the creaking gradually faded as he moved farther into the flat. Luck let out a sigh of relief from where he was cramped under Claire’s arm.

A few seconds later, the closet door opened from the outside. Firo let out a small squawk as he and the others jostled each other in surprise, but it wasn’t Luck’s father who’d opened the door – it was Keith. Unlike his father, the floorboards hadn’t belied his movements in the slightest.

Keith jerked his head, and that alone was enough to send Firo, Luck, and Claire scrambling out of the closet and into the parlor ahead across the hall – just in time for Mr. Gandor to reemerge from the kitchen and spot them.

“There you are! Firo, you’ll be staying over with us, tonight and celebrating Christmas with us. Are you excited?”

Firo nodded eagerly, twisting the bottom of his shirt between his hands. It wasn’t every day he got to sleep over at his friends’ apartment, even _if_ they did live in the same building. He couldn’t wait! It was going to be _so much fun_.

“That’s the spirit! I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but – well, you already have, haven’t ya!” He ruffled Firo’s hair, and crouched down to meet him at eye level. “Now, don’t you worry about your ma. She has to work, but she said that she’ll be thinking of you all through the night. And when she comes back tomorrow, we’ll make sure she celebrates too. Okay?” 

He _hadn’t_ been worrying about his ma until old man Gandor told him _not_ to worry about it, and _oh no oh no_ why did his ma have to work tonight? It was Christmas! She should be here with _him_ , this wasn’t _fair_ , he had been so looking forward to sleeping over but it was _Christmas_ and why did his ma have to be away?

Tears sprang to his eyes, and he scrunched up his face. “Uhm—” he hiccupped, “ _Uhm_ , I’m n-not worried, I—” _oh no oh no_ he didn’t want to cry, not in front of his _friends—_

“Hey Firo hey Firo isn’t this great hey Firo you’re sleeping over when was the last time you slept over _hey_ _c’mon_ guess what we’re gonna have _cider_ tonight—” 

 _Huh?_

_Wait—tickles! Claire’s ticklin’ oh noooo_ “W-wait, Claire! W-waihahaha!” _oh nooooooooo_

“Firooooo!” Berga barreled into the parlor and tackled him, sending him and Claire sprawling to the ground. “You’re staying over? This is great! Hey pop, why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Firo giggled from where he lay on the floor, and Claire rolled over on his back, laying his head on Firo’s stomach.

“You make a nice pillow,” he proclaimed in satisfaction. “It’s good you’re staying over, because _mine_ is getting all lumpy.”

Now he was giggling _even_ _more_. Berga copied Claire, lying down on the other side of Firo and resting his own head on Firo’s stomach. Claire obligingly shifted forward to make room for him.

“Hey, you’re right, this ain’t half bad!”

Luck shuffled forward into Firo’s field of vision, to the left of old man Gandor. The Gandor patriarch patted Luck on his shoulder.

“It’s back to the kitchen for me. You boys feel free to horse around now, but don’t expect to be off the hook for the entire evening.”

Once Mr. Gandor left, Luck crouched down and stared at Firo for a moment.

“You’ve already tuckered him out,” he said, sounding ridiculously reproachful for a child so young. “He’ll be sleepy before we know it.”

“I won’t,” Firo protested. “Nuh- _uh_.”

Still, he was quite content to continue lying on the floor, and Claire and Berga showed no inclination to move. Luck hesitated, and Firo saw his eyes flicker over to the kitchen door. In the end, he sat down cross-legged next to Firo’s feet.

Firo wasn’t exactly sure just how long ‘a while' was, but he figured that was probably for how long he and the others idled on the floor of the Gandors’ parlor. The motivation to finally start moving again emerged with the sound of something sizzling on a stove, the aroma of cloves mixed with apples and cinnamon - and that Berga’s head was _really, really_ weighty.

“Ger’off!” Firo said, pushing at Berga’s head with a few futile thrusts of his hands. “You’re too heavy!”

“Says who?” Berga complained, but he moved all the same. Claire sprang to his feet and stretched, before offering Luck a hand up. They all exchanged a look, and moved as one toward the kitchen. When something as good as _apples, cloves, and cinnamon_ was cooking, it didn’t need asking what the next course of action was.

Berga darted for one of the wooden chairs as soon as they entered the kitchen, immediately putting his elbows on the table and resting his head on his hand.

“Our place probably smells the best in the entire neighborhood,” he boasted. “What’s cooking, anyway?”

“Seafood,” Mr. Gandor announced, “Or at least, it _will_ be. You know that, Berga, it’s always seafood on Christmas Eve.” He caught Firo’s eye and shrugged. “Normally seven dishes, but in our case…we’ll just scale it back a bit. Keith! Cider should be ready now.”

Keith paused and laid his knife down next to the parsley he’d been chopping. Reaching for a ladle, he moved over to the saucepan on the front left burner and ladled the cider into four waiting mugs; Luck carried them over to the table in two trips, where Claire and Firo had already taken their seats. Firo shivered with glee as soon as the warm mug was shoved into his hands, kicking his legs with anticipation.

He took a sip.

Let it be known: Keith’s cider is _the_ best cider in the _whole wide world_ , and five year old Firo is ready to fight anyone who says otherwise.

Keith glanced into the saucepan, filled up one more mug and handed it to his father.

“Bottoms up, boys,” old man Gandor laughed. “Here’s to Christmas Eve.” He took a large gulp of his cider; in awe, Firo could only sit back and admire the man’s clearly superhuman resistance to hot liquid.

“Dad…” Luck muttered, eyeing his own mug of cider suspiciously. “You didn’t…”

“Just a little.” Luck’s father winked. “Just the _tiniest_ splash.”

Firo blinked uncomprehendingly, and settled for watching Keith finish chopping the parsley. The eldest brother worked fast, sprinkling parsley and minced garlic into an olive oil coated pan, which was soon followed by tomatoes from a can. When the tomatoes started to melt, he tossed in olives and some little green things that Firo didn’t recognize.

Berga slammed his mug down onto the table. “Man, was that good—hey Keith, fill ‘er up!”

Keith – who was busy positioning floured pieces of cod into yet another olive oil coated skillet (which had replaced the saucepan) – didn’t so much as look up from his work. “Out,” he said.

“Are you kidding? You can’t be serious!”

Keith’s father ambled over to the stove to check. “No, he’s right. We’re out.”

“Awwww.”

Firo was also a bit disappointed at the news, but at least _he_ still had cider left to drink. “What’s Keith making?” he asked, curious.

“ _Baccalà alla napoletana_ ,” said Mr. Gandor, setting a very large pot upon one of the stove’s back burners.

“Neapolitan Baccala,” Luck amended. “You know, Naples-style.”

“Baccala’s a tradition,” Mr. Gandor explained, “and your father was from Naples, so we thought, why not _napoletana_ …”

Claire nudged him companionably at the word _father_. Firo nodded dumbly, awkwardly – sure, it was nice that they were going to the effort, but he’d never _known_ his father. Didn’t really _know_ Italian, didn’t really keep up with Neapolitan traditions. It was hard to feel excited for something that didn’t actually mean all that much to him, much less knew how to feel _about_.

…But it _was_ easy to feel grateful to them for _caring,_ and with that, Firo drained his cider and stood up determinedly.

“I wanna help!” Berga shot him a pleading _what are you doing?_ look from across the table. “With dinner. Can I?”

Mr. Gandor simply laughed and moved toward the icebox.

“All right! How d’ya feel about washing clams?” 

***

Just as Mr. Gandor had said, theirs was not a dinner of seven seafood dishes. This was a good thing, in Firo’s opinion. Sure, they were six people in total to feed, but frankly the food on the table looked pretty filling as far as meals went. There was the baccala, of course, but it was accompanied by linguine with clams (Firo flushed with pride when he saw the serving platter), marinated anchovies, sautéed broccoli, and fried eel.

It may not have been seven dishes, but if it wasn’t a feast Firo didn’t know _what_ it was. Could they even eat it all?

It turned out they absolutely could – Berga and Mr. Gandor each ate enough for two, and with four more hungry boys at the table they managed to masticate their way through each and every platter.

“Ooh,” groaned Berga. “I can’t move.”

“Oh yes you can,” Mr. Gandor said, though he didn’t look much for moving either. “You’re helping with clean-up.”

After that, it was a flurry of table-clearing, dish-washing, and wipe-downs with all hands on deck. When the last tablecloth was damp and the last plate put away, Firo and Berga let out collective sighs of relief and leaned against each other.

“I’m beat,” groaned Berga, again.

“ _I’m_ not,” piped Claire, by the sink.

“Well – neither am I! In fact, I’m raring to go!”

Luck rolled his eyes at this, and though he was tired, Firo managed a drowsy chortle or two at Berga’s expense.

Berga cracked his knuckles, and Claire shifted his stance. Both of them had a certain gleam in their eyes, one that never boded well for bystanders (which usually consisted of Luck and sometimes Firo).

“Is that so! Well, how about—oh hey there, Keith.”

Keith had maneuvered himself between the two as they postured at one another, and simply stood in the middle without speaking.

“Alright already, I get it, it’s Christmas Eve and all. Don’t need to tell me twice.”

Firo found himself nodding sleepily in agreement. Keith’s point was a good one; it was _Christmas Eve_. Fighting was probably a bad idea, even if it _was_ friendly.

“Firo’s going to sleep,” Luck mumbled, and let out a large yawn of his own.

“As are you, kiddo. Bedtime it is,” announced Mr. Gandor, and Firo attempted a slurred protest or two but quickly gave in to tyranny.

More talking followed – something about how they were originally going to put Firo in Keith’s bed while Keith slept on the couch, but now Luck was changing beds – though most of it was lost on him as he struggled just to stay conscious. Someone (Keith?) guided him to a bedroom and helped him change into a set of Luck’s pajamas. Soon enough, Firo was nestled in one of the Gandors’ beds – whose was anyone’s guess. Claire clambered over him and slipped under the covers.

“You’re sleeping with me tonight!” Claire whispered, and Firo could only offer him a nod, already drifting off to sleep with thoughts of a tomorrow filled with love and laughter.

 

 

 **Present**  

“Coffee, Firo!”

Jolted from his thoughts, Firo flashed a quick smile at Lia and wrapped his hands around the cup she’d placed in front of him, letting its warmth seep into his skin.

“Thanks.”

Already she was moving away, focused on attending to the needs of waiting customers. Firo guiltily looked down into his coffee – wasn’t he a pretty picture, loitering around while she worked on her feet all day and Maiza and Ronny both hard at work already.

“Is something the matter, Firo?”

That was Maiza, and Firo turned to see his mentor’s brow furrowed in concern. Yaguruma was nowhere to be seen (that was bad, Firo should have noticed, should have acknowledged the _primo voto_ leaving).

Firo hesitated, and then sighed.

“So, uh, you know how Ennis asked to talk to me in private yesterday?”

Maiza arched an eyebrow and nodded – he’d been present when it happened, and even if he hadn’t, Randy and Pezzo would have almost certainly shared the gossip his way. 

“Right. Well, she, um, asked if we could celebrate the holidays at home together. Since it’s Czes’ first Christmas with us – she wants to make it special.” 

Maiza’s expression remained neutral, and Firo didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved at the apparent lack of reaction. He waited impatiently for the other man to finish his ale and set his glass down.

“I see.”

“I mean, it’s not as if I don’t _want_ to,” Firo continued, his words now coming out in one single rush of a breath, “In fact, I think it’s a great idea. I want to be excited, and on the one hand I _am_. But—but—”

“You’re not sure how to treat Czes,” Maiza said.

Firo’s shoulders sagged.

“Yeah,” he muttered, hopelessly. “I guess I’m not.” He paused, waited for someone to interject, and barreled on without actually giving Ronny or Maiza the chance to do so. “And it’s not just that, it’s – well, it’s everything. I don’t want to screw up and ruin Christmas for them." 

Maiza regarded him thoughtfully, toying with his empty glass in his hands.

“I think,” he began, “that the concern you’ve just now shown is proof enough that you’ll do an excellent job. Don’t forget, Firo, that you alone are not responsible for the success of the holidays. Talk with them – that will be enough. As for Czes…”

He trailed off, eyes unfocused and far away. Firo opened his mouth to apologize, but Maiza roused himself and continued.

“…Treat him as you’ve always done. If he’s uncomfortable, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”

Firo sipped his coffee, latching onto Maiza’s words and taking them to heart. Yes, that was right – he wasn’t alone, was he? He’d been operating under the assumption that as the man of the house, it was _his_ duty to oversee the holiday preparations, that his – his _family’s_ happiness was  _his_ responsibility.

The more that he thought about it, the more he was glad to have confided in Maiza. Hell, Firo wasn’t even the sole provider of income in the household, come to think of it – Czes pulled in a nice profit from his explosives business, and even Ennis had a stipend from the Martillos from the jobs she did for them.

That’s right – he could just _ask_ Ennis about what she wanted to do for the holidays. What a chump, he was. Honestly. Shaking his head, he downed the rest of the coffee and reached for his hat from where he’d left it on the counter.

“Thanks a lot, Maiza, that really helped. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better get going. Lotta stuff to think about.”

Maiza smiled and offered words of encouragement while Firo stood and draped his coat over his arm – he even went so far as to offer a helping hand should Firo need one in the days to come. Ronny, on the other hand, simply smirked into his glass for the entirety of the exchange, content to remain silent.

With a tip for Lia left on the counter, Firo was set to leave. He raised a hand to Maiza and Ronny, and—

“Hey, Firo! Where ya off to?”

“Slacking off already, Firo?”

Randy – wearing a Santa Claus hat, and Pezzo - wearing an elf’s hat – both slapped Firo on the back simultaneously. He staggered a little, and glared at the two of them. How? When? Had they just materialized around him out of the thin air?

“Actually, I’ll be at the casino later on. Whaddya want?”

A pretty informal and rude way to speak to one’s seniors, but _what the hell_.

“We overheard your conversation just now, and we thought maybe we could help out a little!”

“Y’know, with the razzle dazzle, the pizazz! What’s a street rat like you know about the Christmas spirit anyways?”

“You can count on us, Firo ol’ pal!”

“When have we ever let you down?”

Firo gawped at them _,_ indignant denials already burning the back of his throat. Randy grabbed hold of Firo’s coat, shook it out with a flourish and draped it over Firo’s shoulders. 

“C’mon, Firo, time’s a-wasting!”

The two executives slung their arms around Firo’s shoulders and forcibly herded him towards the exit, resolutely ignoring his spluttered protests. As they moved past Seina, Pezzo – clutching a very familiar green fedora in his left hand (when had he taken it?) – raised his arm and positioned the fedora atop Firo’s head.

“Seina – hey, Seina!”

Firo stretched his arm out as best he could toward what was his last chance for escape, but said last chance simply laughed and did _absolutely nothing to help him, the traitor._  

“Have fun, boys!” 

***

 As it turned out, shopping with Randy and Pezzo (for of _course_ they wanted to take him shopping) _was_ sort of fun. They led him on a whirlwind tour of five different shops, picking out red and silver tinsel, big red bows, multicolored ribbons, and ornaments and figurines both gaudy and tasteful. As always, they kept up a constant stream of chatter throughout the excursion.

“Hey Firo, you’re getting’ a tree, aren’tcha?”

“’Course he is, Pezzo! Why, it ain’t a family Christmas if there ain’t a tree for the family to put presents under!”

“You’ll decorate it with candles, won’tcha Firo?”

“’Course he is, Pezzo! Every good Christmas tree oughta be lit up by candles!”

“Heh heh heh, none of them electric lights, right, Randy?”

“That’s right, Pezzo! What’s Christmas without firelight anyways?”

 _Lit up by candles_. Oh, boy. Firo knew what Randy meant, but picturing a tree ‘lit up’ by candles meant picturing his apartment ‘lit up in flames’ and _that_ meant picturing shelling out a lot of money to cover the burn damage. _Sorry, Randy, Pezzo, but I think I’ll pass_.

All of them were carrying big brown paper sacks of Christmas decorations by the time Randy and Pezzo delivered him to his apartment around three thirty in the afternoon. They accompanied him up the stairs, all the way to his front door, and rang the doorbell while Firo fumbled for his keys. Several seconds later, Ennis opened the door.

“Hello? Oh – Firo! And Randy and Pezzo! I didn’t realize you were stopping by. Would you like to come in?”

 _They’re not staying_ ,Firo wanted to say, but there was a limit to how rude he could be to his own seniors in one day. Even if they _were_ Randy and Pezzo. It wasn’t that he was miffed with them particularly, but if they stayed he was afraid they’d insist on ‘brightening up’ the place. He wouldn’t be too surprised at this point if they had candles hidden in their pockets, ready to go whenever.

Instead, he said, “We’re just dropping all this off,” and sidled past her into the living room so that he could dump the bag onto the couch. Randy and Pezzo followed his lead.

“May I ask what’s in the bags?” asked Ennis, close by his right ear. His heartbeat sped up when he realized she was leaning over his shoulder to peer at the goods.

“Oh – you know,” he said, a little flustered. “Decorations and stuff. I thought about what you said yesterday, and, well…uh…do you like them?”

Ennis perked up at that, and she carefully took hold of Firo’s shopping bag and pushed the paper back to get a better look. He fidgeted with his fingers and tried to look nonchalant.

“They’re lovely,” she said, and Firo let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “You bought them today?”

“Yep! All three of us took a looksee downtown for a coupla hours,” chimed Pezzo.

“And wouldn’t you believe it, it was all Firo’s idea,” cut in Randy, who was preening far too much for it _not_ to have been _his_ idea, but Ennis didn’t seem to notice.

“Really?” Ennis turned to look at him, and Firo flushed hotly under her gaze. 

“Yuh-huh. He’s a real thoughtful guy, ain’t he?” That was Randy again, and he dug a very bony and unsubtle elbow into Firo’s ribs.

“Uh, I. Uhm. Er.” Firo tripped over his own tongue like a fool, but Ennis took his left hand in hers and clasped it warmly.

“You’re very considerate,” she said, and his heart melted. “And that means so much to me, I – Firo! You’re trembling!”

  

With Randy and Pezzo’s help, he and Ennis proceeded to festoon the walls with the red bows and place the figurines on suitable surfaces like the lampstands and coffee table. They framed the kitchen doorway with some of the red tinsel, and politely rejected each and every one of Randy and Pezzo’s offers to buy them “festive candles.”

It was past four when they finished, and Randy and Pezzo stood behind the couch and proudly examined their handiwork, arms akimbo.

“It ain’t half bad, if I do say so myself.” 

“No kiddin’! We’ve really jollied the place up!” 

“All in a day’s work, huh, Pezzo?”

“You said it, Randy!”

 

“I’m back.”

 

All eyes turned to the front entrance, where Czes stood in the doorway with his cap clutched in one hand and a suitcase in the other. His eyes widened as he took in the scene.

“Hullo Mister Randy, Mister Pezzo. What’s going on? A party?”

“Nope! Just a little decorating, kiddo.”

“Ya know, ‘cause it’s the holidays!”

“Isn’t it swell?”

Czes closed the door behind him, setting down the suitcase on the floor. Firo’s palms were clammy with sweat, and he rubbed them on his trousers as surreptitiously as he could.

“It sure feels like Christmas,” he chirped.

“Darn right it does,” Randy said, and in lieu of finding a cross on the wall, looked apologetically at the red bow nearest to him. “Pardon my French.”

“Firo,” said Czes, and Firo tensed in anticipation. “Could you please tell me what time it is?”

 _Huh?_ He knew Czes had a pocket watch, what was he playing at?

Firo pulled his own watch out of his pocket, suddenly wary.

“Four th—oh, hell!”

He fetched his hat and coat from the coat stand – he’d taken them off during the festooning – and donned them as fast as humanly possible.

“Gotta scram – hafta check on the casino. Damn it, if I’m late I’m blaming Laurel and Hardy over by the couch there, you hear me?”

“Well – gee, Firo,” said Randy.

“Yeah, Firo, gee.”

“Gee my foot,” he grumbled. “Coupla wiseguys.”

With a pat-down of his pockets (keys, wallet, check) he was out the door and down the stairs, muttering half-hearted curses under his breath (and no, he would _not_ pardon his French even if it _was_ getting close to Christmas). He definitely would have words to say to Randy and Pezzo if he ended up late after all, but – who was he kidding, some of those words would probably have to be _thank yous_. It was all thanks to them that Ennis had been happy, after all, and they’d even gone so far as to give _him_ the credit for their idea. So he did probably owe them a little gratitude.

That being said, he wasn’t about to let the others take charge for him. He wanted to make Ennis (and Czes) happy _himself_ , with his own ideas and his own initiative.   _No more relying on others_ , he decided. _That’s final._

 

 

 **Tuesday**  

At precisely ten o’clock in the morning, someone knocked on their door four times in quick, sharp succession. Across the table, Czes folded back his newspaper to give Firo an expectant look, and Firo obligingly stood and made his way over to the door.

“Coming,” he called. “Who is it?”

“A friendly face,” was the reply, and Firo opened the door to see—

“Ronny!”

“At your service.” Ronny took off his hat, and Firo took a total of five seconds to collect himself.

“I – please, come in, I didn’t – is something wrong?” Worst case scenarios flitted through his mind. “Molsa! Is Don Molsa –”

Ronny waved his hand. “No, no, nothing like that. I simply thought I might drop by for a quick social call – should I come back at another time? Since you don’t worship, I thought…well, no matter.”

“Wait, no, you picked a great time.” Firo was thoroughly bewildered now, but this was _Ronny_ and he wasn’t about to embarrass himself by acting the poor host. “Come on in; do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“ _Hm._ Well, if you insist.” A small, sly smile graced Ronny’s features, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. “I must admit that I have a bit of an ulterior motive for coming here. Do you recall last Wednesday at all? No matter. I thought I might offer a small token of assistance toward your little mission, perhaps in the way of decoration.”

Totally off guard with the very concept of what was currently happening, it took a moment for Firo to process what Ronny had said. “Oh, uh,” he said, awkwardly, “about that, um, Randy and Pezzo already came by to decorate, and…”

“Oh, no,” corrected the _chiamatore_ , “Not in that sense.” He stepped back, and with a sweeping arm movement gestured behind him.

Firo blinked.

That was a _tree_. In the _hallway_. And it was taller than Ronny, for one thing, and he was _sure_ he would have noticed something that big even if Ronny _had_ been standing in front of it, and – 

“Do you not like it? My apologies, I should have asked beforehand. I shall return it at once.”

Before Firo could get a hold of himself and exclaim something like _no, Ronny, of course not you didn’t have to do that how can I ever thank you, a high-ranking executive doing something like this for a low-rank like me,_ Ennis appeared at his left side to see what the commotion was.

“Oh,” she gasped. “A _tree_.”

Well. That was that. That was that, and Firo opened the door wide to search for some sort of doorstop so that he could go help Ronny carry the tree in. It soon became apparent that Ronny didn’t _need_ help, for he picked up the tree with both hands and maneuvered himself and the plant past Firo and inside the apartment.

Firo ducked his head out into the hallway, again wondering how he could have possibly missed the tree earlier. The fact that the hallway floorboards were clean particularly bothered him, but he couldn’t place _why_ , until – 

_Wait. Shouldn’t there be pine needles or something?_

There should have been, but there _weren’t_ , and he turned to ask Ronny...who stood with his arms folded, admiring the tree standing upright in the cor _ner already hold on just a minute how._ Firo’s attention had only been divided for maybe a minute, so how had they set the tree up so quickly? And quietly, come to think of it.

“Firo, would you please close the door?” asked Ennis. “You’re letting in a draft.”

  

The first thing out of Firo’s mouth once he reached Ronny was, “You work fast.” 

“You flatter me,” Ronny said, and he looked down at Firo appraisingly. “You don’t like the location?”

“Ah…no, actually, it’s fine where it is,” Firo responded. “I, uh, Ronny, I wish you hadn’t gone to all this trouble.”

“Think of it as a workplace bonus. Or, if you’d like, a token of my friendship. If not, then think nothing of it at all. It’s no matter to me.”

A hand lightly touched Firo’s sleeve. Ennis, no doubt.

“Firo? You and Randy and Pezzo bought tree ornaments last week, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

A smile spread across Ennis’ face. Firo allowed himself to fancy that it was shy.

“Would you like to decorate the tree now? We can all do it together.”

 _Together_. “Y-yes! Yes. Good idea.”

Firo fetched the bags and placed them on the breakfast table. Czes glanced at the bags, and then back toward his newspaper. Firo swallowed, tried, and failed to work up the courage to ask him if he’d like to join them.

From then on, he and Ennis moved back and forth between the bags, which contained bright red and green baubles, silver tinsel, golden bells and glass figurines, to the tree, discussing how to best arrange them. Ronny elected to stay and help, hooking baubles onto the tree’s branches with the greatest of care. And – to Firo’s delight – after a few minutes passed, Czes eventually set down his newspaper, hopped off his stool, and joined them.

“Czes!” Ennis cried, clearly pleased. “Would you mind helping me with the tinsel? I can’t quite reach around the tree.” And she wasn’t just saying that out of nicety – someone small like Czes would have a much easier time of wrapping the tinsel around the tree’s hidden back and hanging ornaments there.

“Okay,” Czes said, slowly. “I can do that.”

It didn’t take them much longer to use up all the ornaments, and as they stepped back to appreciate the prettified tree, Firo – without thinking – placed his hands on the shoulders of Czes, who stood in front of him, as a familial gesture. Czes tensed under his fingers, and Firo cursed himself for his idiocy.

“I’m sorry, Czes, I wasn’t—”

“…It’s okay,” muttered Czes, and he relaxed slightly into Firo’s grasp. His reassurance didn’t stop Firo from feeling like a huge tool, and he wondered if he should move his hands away. His fingers twitched, and he was just about to leave Czes alone when Ronny spoke up from where he stood by the table.

“It seems we forgot the most important item,” he said, and out of the corner of Firo’s eye he could see Ronny pulling a large angel figurine out from one of the paper bags. That was odd – he could have sworn the bags were empty earlier, and what’s more, he _didn’t_ remember Randy and Pezzo buying one.

“Who shall do the honors?” Ronny asked. “What about you, Czes?”

Czes was still under Firo’s hands. “I’m too short,” he said, after a pause.

“Oh, I’m sure you can manage somehow,” Ronny pressed. “If someone were to lift you, perhaps?”

Inwardly, Firo panicked. That wasn’t something Czes would like, would it? Sure, Czes _acted_ like a child around them, but he wouldn’t want to be manhandled, would he? Would he?

“You mean Firo?”

Czes’ question was high-pitched and utterly child-like, which didn’t help Firo’s internal dilemma at all.

“Firo? I don’t see why not,” said Ronny, and Czes turned to fix Firo with a blank, unhelpful look.

“Do you want to lift me, Firo?”

 _Why, that little_ – “I’m ready whenever you are!” he exclaimed, weakly.

Czes lifted up his arms, and Firo tentatively hoisted Czes up and onto his shoulders, hoping he wasn’t doing something wrong. Ronny handed the angel to Czes, and the sort-of-boy reached forward and topped the tree with it.

“Amazing, Czes!” Ennis clapped her hands, and Firo adjusted his grip on Czes’ legs as he shifted to look at his ‘big sister.’

“You’re not…you mean it?” His tone changed halfway through the sentence from cautious to cautiously hopeful. Ennis nodded, nothing but sincerity in her expression.

“I love it,” she insisted, and a shiver went up and down Firo’s spine.

A pause. Czes rapped him on the head. “Put me down,” he said. “You’re definitely going to drop me.”

 

 

**Monday**

A Gandor associate led Firo toward the door leading to the Coraggioso’s basement, even though he already knew the way. He supposed he ought to appreciate the courtesy for what it was.

“They’ll be happy to see you,” the associate remarked. “They haven’t had any visitors today.”

The Gandor brothers _were_ happy to see him – well, all two of them. Berga was out, apparently, something about forgetting to buy Kalia a present. When the associate had told Firo that, his heart had stopped until he remembered that it wasn’t actually Christmas yet and that he’d already bought Ennis and Czes gifts on Saturday.

“ _Firo_ ,” drawled Luck, reclining in his chair. “What a happy happenstance this is.”

 

 _What_.

 

Luck’s cufflinks were undone – absurdly, that was what drew Firo’s attention first. His collar too was unbuttoned, and hold on, _reclining_? Luck didn’t _recline_. At least, not at work, where he always endeavored to remain professional. To say nothing of how he’d _greeted_ Firo – something was very, very wrong.

Firo appealed to the highest power in the room.

“Keith,” he wheedled, looking to the eldest brother for salvation. “Has he been drinking?”

Keith – who’d been idly shuffling through a pack of cards – shook his head. A rare, fond, smile adorned his face.

“You wound me,” drawled Luck, again – and it was _one hundred percent_ a drawl. “Truly, my heart bleeds. Why, you may call me afflicted, but I assure you it is not of the drink. Ossified, dazed, addled, even jiggered – and yet to indulge in a drop of liquor. No, my affliction stems from something far greater -- you see, the disease I have affects even the teetotaler now and then. For what I have is a touch of,” and here Luck extended his right index finger upward to accentuate his point, “The _doldrums_.”

“…The doldrums,” Firo repeated, mystified.

“Yes,” said Luck, “the _doldrums_.”

Firo deliberated, and swiveled for the stairs.

“Oh come now... Leaving so soon?”

“Look,” sighed Firo, “I don’t know what I walked into, and I don’t really know how to deal with whatever _this_ is, so…”

“So you _don’t_ know. What’s the harm in not knowing? It’s served you well all these years – ah, forgive me for being graceless, but that _was_ your credo, was it not – but I assure you it is a disease easily cured. For am I nothing if not – if not –”

Luck only just managed to stifle a laugh, and he stretched languidly in his seat. “Oh, well, there’s no use for it. I’m afraid you’ve gone and roused me from my stupor.” Already he was sitting upright, buttoning his collar with minimal fuss. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Firo, I didn’t mean to startle you. The thing is, last December was such an affair that I am deeply inclined to enjoy our present one, for in comparison it is fairly marvelous in its mundaneness.”

He fluttered a slender hand, stifled another laugh, and said, “You know – the odd shootout or three, a car bomb, several underhanded deals – the usual.”

“Riiiight. Okay. So...I can talk to you, now?”

“Certainly. I’m all yours.”

Finally. 

“D’you remember how I called you last week and said I’d be spending the holidays at home this year?”

Luck nodded, fiddling with his cufflinks.

“Well…I was hoping for a favor. A personal one, not one on the Family’s behalf.”

 

Last Tuesday night - long after Ronny had left their apartment - Firo had sulked for a good hour in his bed. _He’d_ wanted to bring up a tree, and while it had been _infuriatingly, bewilderingly_ generous of Ronny to gift the household one, it was yet another holiday mainstay that he’d been deprived of orchestrating himself. 

That was going to change today. Of course, reaching out to the Gandors for help was still relying on _someone else_ , but it was definitely _different_ – _he_ was taking the initiative this time, and besides – he was just going to ask the Gandors for _ideas_ , that was all. The actual _doing_ – he was going to do. Him. Firo Prochainezo. Youngest Martillo executive. _H i m_.

 

“Anything for a friend,” intoned Luck, and Firo blushed self-consciously over what he was about to ask.

“I was hoping that uh, maybe you guys had a few Christmassy recipes I could copy down. I’m coming up a little short, and…y’know.”

Keith let out the slightest of coughs, but it was enough to make Firo’s heart skip a startled beat. Luck threw a glance his brother’s way, and then looked back at Firo. 

“Keith’s right. You should speak with Kate,” Luck said. “She’s got some doozies I think you might like, and I’m certain that she’s written down some of what Keith’s cooked over the years.”

“Wow, thanks!” This was better than what Firo had hoped for, and he made a mental note to buy Kate an extra something along with the gift he’d already picked out for her. _Maybe some perfume?_ “And while we’re at it, could—”

Keith coughed, louder this time.

Luck eyed his brother, and smirked at Firo. “No, you can’t have his cider recipe. He’s taking it to—” a snicker “—his grave.”

Firo’d figured. He laughed. “Guess I can always try again in a century or two – maybe he’ll have changed his mind by then.”

“I’d like to see you try.” 

With the favor out of the way, he and Luck spent the next ten minutes or so idly chatting about whatever sundry inconsequentials crossed their minds while Keith read through reports at his desk. It was comfortingly peaceful, and when Berga thundered down the stairs hollering something awful Firo had the mind to ask him where the burr was so he could swallow it.

Instead, he looked up from where he’d sat himself down on Luck’s desk and settled for puffing his cheeks out in exasperation.

“Those Kramer assholes! Dirty sneaking bastards sneaking around on our turf! Why I’m gonna…oh hey there, Firo.”

“Hey yourself,” Firo jibed, “what’s the bee in _your_ bonnet?”

“Buncha bastards,” fumed Berga. “You won’t believe these guys—”

“Buncha bastard bonnet bees, Berga?”

Firo groaned into his hat, and Luck snorted and covered his face with his hand. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” The conciliatory smile he offered Firo was more of a grin than a smile, but not quite a simper, which Firo supposed was something.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not giddy?” Firo asked, because really when did Luck _ever_ act like this for extended periods of time?

Luck shook his head, exhaled, and steepled his fingers together in front of his lips. “Go on,” he said, giving Berga an encouraging look.

Some of the wind had been taken out of Berga’s sails, and his acknowledging grunt sounded almost human.

“So these Kramer jerks’ve been staking out our turf for one week, two weeks, right? I spot Franky Kramer out two streets over from Mulberry, and whaddya know? The little sumbitch was hotwiring a car! On _our_ turf! Soon as he sees me he hoofs it but I caught his cousin Leo hiding behind this old beat up black Ford and I’ve got Tick watching him upstairs right _now_.”

Huffing for breath, Berga tossed his hat onto his desk and waited expectantly.

Silence. 

Luck folded his hands upon his desk. “Is that all?”

Berga grumbled. Berga groused. One of his eyes twitched. His hands contracted into fists, relaxed, and contracted again.

“Yeah,” he huffed. “That’s all.”

Luck brightened. “What did I say, Firo? A walk in the park.” With that he stood, and readjusted his wayward suspender. “I suppose I might as well acquaint myself with them. I hope you’ll excuse me.”

“Sure,” replied Firo, “but when can I meet with Miss Kate?”

Luck peeked over at Keith. “How does tomorrow sound? Ten o’clock all right with you?”

Keith’s pen stopped.

“My mistake. How about eleven?”

Keith resumed writing. Firo shrugged. “Fine with me. Whatever works for her.”

“Glad to hear it. Well, I’m off upstairs – I’ll say my goodbyes when you follow.”

Without further ado, Luck ascended the stairs. Berga followed after him, slamming the door with one vicious jerk of his arm. The ensuing silence was absent of pen scritching, and he looked over to Keith, who’d leant back in his seat with his eyes on Firo.

“Hey Keith, really, thanks a bunch for this. I’ll make sure to get something real special for Kate.”

Keith cocked his head, and with his right hand indicated Luck’s seat.

“You don’t mind…? Well, I guess I can stick around for a little while longer. S’been a while.”

He plopped into the chair, stoutly tuning out Berga’s bellowing from upstairs. Keith relaxed, and they settled in for an hour of companionable silence together – well, relatively silent, but why quibble the details? Christmas Eve was this coming Saturday after all, and family was family, and you know, maybe after Christmas was over he’d plan something out with the Gandors for the New Year.

Yeah. That’d be nice.

  

 

**Christmas Eve**

Firo’s hands ached from hours of shucking chestnuts and chopping onions and garlic and herb after vegetable after herb, but there was something satisfying in watching the fruits of one’s labor come to fruition. The chestnuts were boiling in milk now on a back burner, and he was keeping an eye on them while he sat on a stool and scrubbed clams in a pot balanced on his lap.

Not that he really _needed_ to keep an eye on them – Ennis was humming _Good King Wenceslas_ over the stovetop, placing floured and fried salt cod strips into a gently simmering tomato sauce. As it happened, Firo hadn’t brought the recipe to her attention when she’d sifted through his copies of Kate’s recipes – she’d picked it out herself and admitted she’d never _had_ salted cod before.

Firo hadn’t actually made baccala himself, but from what he could tell Ennis was doing a bang-up job so far, and wasn’t she a pretty picture with her soft skin and sleeves rolled up and—

“Ye gads, Firo, your face really is pink.”

“It is not,” he yelped, and glared over to where Czes was leaning against the icebox. “If it is, it’s just from all the steam and you know it.”

“Oh?” Czes’ face scrunched up in mischief, and although that really didn’t bode well for Firo, he far preferred it to the slightly sour look Czes had been nursing all throughout the evening. Eyebrows furrowed, mouth twisted from displeasure – he’d been downright _grumpy_ and Firo couldn’t figure out why.

“You heard me. It’s just the steam.”

“If you say so.” Czes fidgeted with the cuff of his shirt, looking oddly unsure of what do with himself. Maybe he was feeling sort of useless, doing nothing while Ennis and Firo were busy in the kitchen?

But Firo wasn’t about to invite him to help out with the cooking process. He’d thought about it, granted, but he knew how jumpy Czes was about kitchens – he could cook for himself no problem, but whenever other people got involved in the cooking process he made himself scarce. 

_What to do…_

“Czes?” Ennis asked, and the clam Firo’d been working on slipped through his fingers and back into the water. “Would you please start setting the table? It’s probably best to get a head start.”

 _Attagirl, Ennis!_ Firo beamed into the pot with unreserved admiration for his roommate. Earlier that day, she’d gotten out the _nice_ plates and the _nice_ cutlery and laid them out on the counter by the icebox so that they’d be easier to fetch once dinner rolled round. All Czes had to do was shuffle around the icebox to grab them – nowhere near the stove and nowhere near Firo.

Czes’ face relaxed a little. “Okay.”

Ennis watched Czes for a few moments, and then returned her attention to the stove – still with that small, sweet smile of hers, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her cheeks faint pink under the dusky glow of the ceiling lamp, and Firo found himself falling a little more in love with her by the minute.

***

After they cleared away dinner, Firo collapsed onto the couch in his living room and contemplated their tree in the corner. It was just as healthy as it had been a week and a half ago when Ronny had gifted it to them, and even _Firo_ had noticed that it had yet to shed a single needle. He’d ask Ronny later about it – probably some newfangled chemical spray. Six boxes nestled underneath its boughs, and although the tree was a sight with its tinsel and ornaments and bells, he had to admit that maybe Randy and Pezzo had been right about it needing candles. Firo didn’t particularly feel up for _regretting_ anything at the moment – no, he wanted to bask in his accomplishments and by George, that was what he was going to do.

Ennis circled around the couch, gently laid a plate of leftover chestnuts onto the coffee table in front of them, and took her own seat near Firo while leaving a little space between them. Before Firo could feel sorry for himself, Ennis patted the empty space and said, “Czes, would you like to sit with us?" 

Czes crossed into Firo’s field of vision and claimed the spot as his own, immediately leaning over to whisper, “Sorry, Firo – I’ll make sure Ennis sits next to you tomorrow.”

Firo shrugged carelessly, and Czes rolled his eyes at him before sinking back into his seat. Silence – the satisfied sort of silence that is borne from mutual post-work exhaustion – settled over them, and Firo was content enough to continue basking in the splendor of the tree, his arm over Czes’ shoulders. 

“I got you a folding hunter knife, two blades,” Czes blurted, looking squarely at his knees. Firo sat up, concerned.

“And Ennis, I bought you a scarf and a bracelet, and it’s not too late for me to go back tomorrow and exchange them **–** ”

“Hey, what brought all this on?” Firo squeezed Czes’ shoulder, his heart sinking into his stomach. Everything had been going so _well._

Ennis emitted a soft gasp of dismay. “Oh _Czes_ , you didn’t need to tell us what our gifts are…”

“But!” Czes still would not meet either of their eyes, and Ennis shot Firo a horrified look over the immortal boy’s head. “But, what if you don’t _like_ them? They’re nothing _special_ , not really, it’s not like I put extra effort into them or anything. I made a mess of things  _again_ …”

“Czes,” and here Ennis reached out her left hand to stroke Czes’ hair; he leaned into her touch, “I treasure every single gift I’ve been given, no matter what.”

 

 _Oh, that’s right! We’ve got a present for you, Ennis!_

_A really good one!_

_This boy is Czes!_

_Take him as your little brother, Ennis! That’ll be perfect!_

Nearly a year had gone by since that fateful day at Pennsylvania Station, but Firo could hear Isaac and Miria’s voices as clear as day, ghosting across his consciousness with palpable earnestness. Was Czes thinking similarly?

Czes finally lifted his head to look at her with wide, vulnerable eyes. Firo shifted over to the right and adjusted his arm more securely around Czes’ shoulders. “Not _like_ it,” he exclaimed. “You gotta be kidding me, I’ve always wanted one of those dual-bladed knives, I mean, _wow_!” 

“B-but—”

“Now that you’ve told me about it I’m not gonna be able to sleep all night I’m so excited,” Firo complained. Czes looked between the two of them, and then down again.

“So I guess I was just…overthinking things?”

“Yup.”

“…Oh.” Some of the tension lessened from Czes’ face, to be replaced with quiet fatigue. A minute of silence passed. Firo didn’t dare to break it. “I’m…sorry I spoiled your presents for you.”

Ennis hadn’t stopped stroking Czes’ hair, and Firo took the responsibility of replying. “Aw, who cares? It’s two hours to Christmas anyway, what’s the harm in being a little early. You know what, I got you a pair of real nice gloves, real warm and sturdy. Noticed that yours were getting a little threadbare.”

“And I – well,” Ennis lowered her gaze demurely, “It’s just a few books I thought you might like. I hope you like them.” 

Guilt flashed over Czes’ face, and he leant against her arm. “I’m sure I will,” he replied, and he pulled at Firo’s jacket with his left hand. Firo obligingly scooted closer, so that his and Czes’ legs were pressed together.

The three of them drifted off into silence again – the drowsy sort of silence this time, the sort of silence that settled over one like an old, familiar quilt and promised restful dreams. Just as Firo was nodding off, Czes murmured sleepily, “Firo, I almost forgot.”

“Whazzat?”

“When Ronny was over…I asked him… _mistletoe_ …”

“Huh?”

A droopy smile spread across Czes’ face. “ _Up._ ”

Firo looked upward.

“ _Heyyy_ Ennis…” Czes slurred, “…There’s mistletoe above… _Meerrrry Christmaaaas…_ ”

Firo didn’t dare to move, didn’t dare to _breathe_ , maybe she was already asleep, yeah, that was it, maybe—

“Oh…” Ennis hummed, drowsiness softening her every consonant. “Mistletoe is…for kisses, right?”

“Uh-huh…” Czes opened one triumphant eye Firo’s way. “Kisses.”

Ennis paused, and then leaned over to kiss Czes’ head; then, she leaned forward farther still and kissed Firo on the cheek.

“Merry Christmas, Firo.”

The spot where she kissed him tingled, and had he been properly lucid he might have blushed from head to toe before freezing on the spot. But sleep tugged at him now, and he slumped slightly over Czes, muscles relaxing with every breath he took. Ennis’ breathing evened out beside him, and he closed his eyes, filled with a quiet contentment like he hadn’t quite ever experienced before.

 

_See you in the morning._

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> The song that the man asks the band to play, "Happy Days are Here Again," was a 1929 song that FDR's advisors spontaneously decided to play at the 1932 DNC. It became FDR's campaign song and was so popular it stayed on as the Dems' unofficial theme song for years and years afterward. It was _also_ associated with the Repeal of Prohibition, because one of Roosevelt's more popular campaign promises was to do just that. When Prohibition _was_ finally repealed on Dec 5, 1933, several cars drove around with signs reading "Happy Days Are Beer Again!" on their roofs. 
> 
> This is related to the failed repeal that Firo refers to: when a lame-duck 72nd Congress convened on Mon, Dec 5, 1932, one of its first items to deal with was a resolution proposing a new amendment repealing the 18th. With 272 for and 144 against, the resolution failed with only 6 votes needed for a 2/3rd House passage. How ironic that the 21st would finally pass on Dec 5 of the following year! [Here's](https://books.google.com/books?id=XsYi06oDpHMC&pg=PA169&lpg=PA169&dq=%22december+5+1932%22+prohibition&source=bl&ots=7CtuEF6cNG&sig=Sc1UPp509qEMpTFYnbqQ9uOUeq4&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjawZ6x2LrRAhXDKWMKHXe8DeQQ6AEIJjAC#v=onepage&q=%22december%205%201932%22%20prohibition&f=false) some more detail about the Resolution, and [a contemporary newspaper article](http://www.rarenewspapers.com/view/629064?list_url=%2Flist%3Fq%255Bquery%255D%3Dprohibition%2525q%255Bsearch_method%255D%3DAll%2BWords) published by the New York World Telegram on the incident (perhaps the same article Firo read?). 
> 
> Mr. Gandor's statement that "it's always seafood on Christmas Eve" stems from The Feast of the Seven Fishes (La Viglia), which originated in S. Italy and has traditionally been the (Catholic) Italian(-American) meal for Christmas Eve. Of course, I am only assuming that the Gandors have Italian heritage. At any rate, the number of dishes isn't always seven - the main bit is that the feast is seafood-based, and that red meat is only consumed on Christmas only. 
> 
> Baccala is one of the more traditional S. Italian Vigil dishes, and recipes for it vary regionally. 
> 
> Regarding the tree lights - lighting the tree with electric lights was by no means an outlandish idea in 1933. In 1923, the National Christmas Tree lit by Coolidge had 3000 electric lights, and pre-assembled Christmas light kits were first produced by General Electric in 1903, making electric deco vastly more affordable. Randy and Pezzo just really like fire.
> 
> The Gandor associate who leads Firo downstairs was originally Tick, but I reread Bloody to Fair and it turns out that Firo doesn't actually know him. That surprised me.
> 
> I wrote young Firo as a little more innocent/sweet than he was in the manga flashbacks, but since this one takes place two years before those...let's just say that he went through a change over the next two years?


End file.
